


In Bloom

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Florist Fitz, No Angst, Tattoo Artist Jemma, zero zero zero angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz is a grumpy florist and Jemma is the tattooed, pierced customer who terrifies him -- until she ends up being so sweet and interesting even he can't resist. </p><p>Inspiration from notapepper's fabulous fanart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notapepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapepper/gifts).



> This work inspired by notapepper's fanart!! And also we did a ton of brainstorming together so this is basically a collaboration.  
> 

Fitz hears the bells above the shop door jangle and launches automatically into his spiel without looking up. “Hullo, welcome to Fitz it with Flowers, how can I help you today?”

Then he glances up, and in the second necessary to take in the explosion of ink and piercings and leather in front of him, he realizes someone’s trying to rob the store.

He yelps and hurls the plant he’s holding -- a mini cactus, the perfect floral weapon -- at the invader.

The woman ducks and the pot shatters on the floor.

 “We do most of our transactions with cards, there’s hardly any cash in the register,” Fitz babbles, throwing his hands up in case there’s a gun involved.

“Do you welcome all your customers with projectile cacti?”

“Custo--” He gulps and lowers his hands, blushing furiously. “Sorry, I thought you were -- with the, you know--” He gestures at her tattoos. “Didn’t realize you were buying something.”

To his relief she’s grinning, so at least she won’t report him to the police. As she approaches the counter he can see the little starbursts woven into the shoulders of her leather jacket and the gentle way her cheeks curve around her wide smile. He starts unconsciously cataloging her piercings as if they were new blossoms on one of his perennials: a ring through her lower lip, a constellation of little studs through her eyebrow, wide gauges in her ears.

“So it was more of a preemptive ‘get off my lawn’? I know I’m intimidatingly beautiful but that’s no need to panic.”

“You’re definitely intimidating,” he mutters. Her short-cropped hair is a fascinating melange of dark red and bright pink which should clash horribly with her amber eyes but somehow the combination just highlights her freckles more, making her whole person seem _warm_. He only realizes he’s been staring at her eyes when they blink and her smile gets wider.

“Anyway, your adorable lack of customer service skills aside, do you happen to have any poppies? I run the tattoo parlor on Third and I’ve got a customer who wants poppies up his forearm.”

“That’s a stupid choice,” Fitz grunts. “The poppy symbolizes eternal sleep.”

“Yes, I think he’s aware,” the woman replies coolly. “He’s an army veteran and wanted to honor fallen comrades.”

“Oh.” Fitz digs his thumbnail into the wood of the counter, blushing. “Sorry.”

“Believe it or not, tattoos aren’t all stamp tramps and the Chinese characters for ‘duck sauce’. Some of us take it rather seriously.”

“I know, I know,” Fitz mutters. At this point he’s just desperate to get her out of the shop so he can go vomit from embarrassment. “Tell you what. If you pay for the cactus you can have the poppy for free.” He points to the red flowers halfway down the left aisle of the little jungle.

The woman narrows her eyes. “Aren’t cacti far more expensive than flowers?”

“Are they?” Fitz asks innocently.

“Hmm, yeah, I’m not paying for your prejudice, sorry. I’ll just take the poppies.”

He rings her up in silence. In the glances he dares to dart at her, he sees something that almost looks like a chemical compound peeking out above the collar of her leather jacket, but he’s already made a thorough arse of himself and if he never speaks to her again he’ll be quite well off.

“Bye then,” she chirps with far more cheeriness than he deserves. She gives him a little wave and sweeps out of the store.

He groans and collapses across the counter. _The things I do for my mother._

  
  


His mum finds out, of course, because he can’t lie to her, and the very next day she sends him out with a floral arrangement to find the Pretty Tattoo Girl. He knows it’s mostly because his mum’s determined on setting him up and he was a bit too generous in describing the woman -- not that she’s _not_ gorgeous, but his mum didn’t need to know that -- so he considers ditching the flowers in the first garbage bin and spending an hour perusing the used bookstore down the street, but again, he can’t lie to his mum and somehow she’ll know.

The only tattoo parlor on Third is Jemma’s Tattoos. _Jemma_. It’s a soft name, belonging to someone who wears high-necked cashmere sweaters and takes high tea, but it still somehow suits her.

Heavy metal blaring from a vibrating speaker nearly frightens him right back out the door, but Jemma turns as he enters and greets him with a sunny smile as if she’s been waiting. She’s wearing a purple camisole today, no jacket, so he can see all of the ink winding up her arms and it’s a dizzying tapestry of vines and text and, indeed, chemical compounds.

“Well, if it isn’t my very own prickly assailant!”

 “Sorry?”

“Prickly, like a cactus?”

“How long did it take you to brainstorm that one?” he grumbles.

“You’ll find I’m full of clever puns. Should I go get something to throw at you? Is that how we greet customers?”

“That’s really not necessary, I’m not here for a tattoo. Erm, I just came to give you these. As an apology.” He thrusts the bouquet at her, holding it high up on the stems so that she can take it without having to touch him.

“These are beautiful!” she gasps, hurrying across the shop to accept them. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes. “Do I smell honeysuckle?”

 “Yeah,” Fitz says, surprised. “We don’t sell it, obviously, but it grows just around the corner.”

“That’s fantastic,” she sighs. “I’m Jemma, by the way.” Cradling the flowers in the crook of her arm, she sticks out her hand. There’s a loop of blue around her middle finger and he almost expects to feel the ridge of a ring when he takes her hand, but of course the tattoo is as smooth as her skin.

“Fitz.”

“Oh! So _you’re_ the sweet old lady with the apron and the pruning shears!”

“...What?”

“On your logo? The giant one of the front of your store?”

“Oh, no, that’s my mum. It’s her shop. Our surname is Fitz, but I just go by Fitz, rather than my given name. My mum goes by Elenore... I don’t know why you needed to know that.” He blows out a breath, realizing he’s rambling. “We, uh, assumed she’d be better for business, if we put her on the logo. Sweater vests aren’t exactly a draw.”

Jemma bites her lip, her teeth grazing dangerously close to her piercing, and it both makes him wince and completely captivates him. She steps back a bit, glancing up and down at him. “I don’t know, I think they’re kind of hot.”

Fitz feels his cheeks burning and he tugs the hem of his sweater down, wishing he’d worn one without elbow patches.

“Was that all?” Jemma asks brightly, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. “I should probably put these in water--” 

“Yeah, of course. I just... I wanted to apologize for throwing the cactus at you. I get a bit grumpy when I work in the shop -- I’ve got allergies, makes me a bit prone to overreact.” 

“Allergies? Seriously?” Jemma rolls her eyes. 

“Compounded with pre-existing anxiety and asocial tendencies, yes,” Fitz grumbles. 

Usually this is the part where he loses people, where they become stiff and use a different, more babying voice. 

Jemma just smiles and shakes her head. “Well, you’re the first anxious, asocial person who’s thrown something at me for being too bubbly, but I suppose we all have our coping mechanisms.” She whirls away and gently deposits the flowers on a chair. “Do you want to see the tattoo that the poppies were for?” 

“Er -- yeah, okay.” Fitz follows her through a curtain into the back of the store, carefully _not_ looking for needles. 

Jemma’s stretched up on her tiptoes, reaching for a big white binder. Fitz’s eyes trail down her body and he notices for the first time a large, intricate red and blue tattoo drawn across the muscle of her calf. It looks like waves, or fire, or clouds, or perhaps all three combined, and as she stretches it ripples. 

It’s absolutely mesmerizing. 

“Here we are,” Jemma pants, landing back on her feet, and Fitz looks away quickly as she walks back to him and stands close by his side. “I take pictures of all my final, both as inspiration for future clients but also as a memory book or portfolio for myself. The ones at the beginning are a bit rough, don’t tell anyone...” 

As she flips through the plastic pages, Fitz watches in awe as the tattoos progress. The early designs were more rudimentary and the ink bled, but as Jemma had grown more comfortable  the work began finer, more detailed, more like a full painting on a canvas. 

“Hang on,” he interrupts, stopping her hand and moving back a page. “Is that--” 

“The Milky Way,” she finishes eagerly. “One of my personal favorites. It took six different sessions, but she was determined.” 

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, tracing the swirls with his fingertip. “It could almost be a photograph. I didn’t know that kind of intricacy was possible.” 

“It’s expensive, and most people don’t have the patience. I’ve developed something of a reputation for my style, though, so people seek me out when they want something a bit more complicated.” 

Fitz glances down at her, at the little bluebells running up the cord of her neck and the leaves spreading across her shoulder. There’s some text on her bicep -- he can just read the words ‘is destroyed’ -- but he’s known her less than twenty-four hours and it seems an intensely personal thing, to ask someone about their tattoos. 

She reaches a page in the latter half of the book and holds it out proudly. “There are the poppies.”   

“Wow,” he breathes, taking the binder from her. “The shading -- you can tell exactly where the light is coming from.” She’s watching him intently and he swallows and hands it back to her. “I think even my mum might sign up for one of those if she saw that.” 

“Send her over, I’ll give her a discount,” Jemma chuckles. “You run the shop together?” 

“Yeah. I’m in night school -- we don’t have a lot of money, so I help her with the shop, she gives me a portion of the proceeds to pay for classes -- in about... six years I’ll get my degree, if I’m lucky.” He scuffs his sneaker across the tile floor, which he notes with a degree of relief on behalf of Jemma’s customers is immaculately clean. “And you? How did you wind up here?” 

“Believe it or not, this isn’t a family business.” Jemma leans against what looks to be her work station and Fitz’s eyes travel behind her, to pages and pages of drawings, photographs and other source material, color-sorted pencils... “I was studying chemistry -- hence these guys--” She brushes a hand over the trail of molecules down her neck and shoulder. “But I’ve always loved art and I was spending all my extra money getting tattoos anyway, so I thought I’d put those interests together.” 

“Are those the happiness molecules?” Fitz asks, daring to step a bit closer to peer at them. 

Jemma tilts her head to further expose her skin for his examination. “I admit to being impressed, flowerboy! Serotonin, dopamine, adrenaline. As a reminder.” 

“A reminder to be happy?” Fitz smiles slightly. “You hardly seem to have trouble with that.” 

“The last time you made assumptions based on appearances, you threw a cactus at an innocent woman,” she reminds him sternly, though there’s a wrinkle of mirth around her eyes. 

“Touché.” 

“They’re also a reminder that the world is full of possibilities,” Jemma continues, grazing the dopamine tattoo with her fingertips in what is obviously an unconscious habit. “That one day you can be studying chemistry and the next--” 

“Torturing hipsters and bikers,” he teases. 

“You don’t know if don’t try it!” she sings. 

“Oh, I’d never get a tattoo,” Fitz dismisses, tugging down his sleeves as if to hide his bare skin from her. “The needles are a non-starter.” 

Jemma laughs. “That’s a common complaint. You could always think of it as intensive acupuncture.” 

“Does it make me boring, not wanting tattoos?” 

She regards him with a soft warmth in her eyes. “I think about that a lot, actually. I think many people come to me because they want to prove something or because they think it will revolutionize their lives, but... Tattoos don’t make you more attractive or more interesting or more intimidating. You are all those things beforehand, or you’re not. A little ink on your skin doesn’t change that.” 

“So I’m hopelessly boring,” Fitz confirms. 

“Or hopelessly interesting! So interesting it can’t even be helped.” 

“Okay, I’m heading back to the shop,” Fitz groans, “before you mock me senseless.” 

“I wasn’t mocking you!” Jemma laughs, following him back into the front of her store. “I swear.” 

“You should put those in water,” he reminds her, pointing to the flowers. 

“They really are beautiful,” she says softly. 

He stops in the doorway. “I really am sorry, by the way. About the cactus.” 

It’s a lie. If he hadn’t tried to knock her out with a succulent, he’d never have had a reason to visit her. Because as it turns out, she’s rather a pleasant person to be around. 

He won’t tell his mum that, though.

  
  
  
  


Jemma assumes three days is a reasonable amount of time to wait before returning the visit. 

It must be stocking day, because the aisles of the already wilderness-like shop are strewn with pots. She steps carefully to avoid crushing leaves and ducks under some vines before she spies an older woman watering a row of orchids. 

“Mrs. Fitz?” 

The woman turns, and though the resemblance to her son is strong, she apparently doesn’t have any of the same fear of eyebrow piercings because she says kindly, “Yes, dear?” 

“I’m sorry, I -- I recognized you from the window. Is Fitz in?” 

“Oooh, you must be the girl who gave Fitzy such a fright! I only wish we had security cameras so I might’ve watched the encounter myself.” 

Jemma decides immediately that she likes Mrs. Fitz. Besides: _Fitzy_? That’s gold. 

“He’s back in the exotics, dear. Just there, yes.” 

Fitz doesn’t hear Jemma coming and nearly drops a pot when she pops up next to him. 

“Bloody -- was that necessary? You’ve already cost us one pot!” 

“You could switch to plastic,” Jemma suggests lightly, leaning over to smell a papery yellow blossom. “What is this?” 

“That’d be rather irresponsible from an environmental standpoint,” Fitz grumbles. “And it’s _Tecoma chrysostricha._ It’s the national flower of Brazil.”

 “You know all the Latin names?” Jemma demands eagerly. “Can you teach me?” 

“Can I tea-- what are you doing here, Jemma?” 

“I don’t have any appointments til this afternoon, so I thought I’d stop by.” She knows she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet but the smells and humidity of the shop fill her with joy, and Fitz’s look of absolute confusion is helping. 

“But... _why_?” 

“Like I said, I find you hopelessly interesting.” 

“No,” he corrects firmly, “you said I _might_ be hopelessly interesting. That’s quite different from _finding_ me hopelessly interesting. I’m sure you’ll have a different impression if you spend more than five minutes with me.” 

“I did, the other day.” Jemma’s actually quite glad that Fitz mentioned his anxiety and asocial tendencies because otherwise she’d have fled long ago, convinced that her enthusiasm was annoying him. But she witnessed for herself how he could be worn down -- it’s just a matter of time. 

“And you came back for more?” Mrs. Fitz calls from the next aisle. “Mental, this one, Fitz.” 

“Of course she’s mental, mum!” Fitz shouts back. “Have you seen the things she does to her body?” 

“Anyway, I figured you certainly weren’t ever returning to my shop, given your fear of needles, so I’d have to come here if I wanted to talk to you more.” 

“And you do?” Fitz verified warily. 

“Very much so,” Jemma admits, a bit shyly. 

He frowns at her -- really frowns, with his lower lip sucked in a bit and his eyebrows casting shadows over his face -- before he nods reluctantly. “Alright, just don’t get in the way.”

  
  
  


Several hours later, Jemma leaves and Mrs. Fitz announces teatime. She watches Fitz gleefully over the rim of her cup for a few minutes in silence, then says slyly, “That Jemma’s quite something, isn’t she? I bet she has all sorts of those -- what are they called, thangs?” 

“Thongs?” Fitz corrects automatically, then groans and nearly face-plants into the peach yogurt. “Mum, _stop_.” 

“I’m not implying anything! She’s just very exciting, is all.”

 Thinking about what Jemma had said the other day, Fitz says firmly, “Jemma is exciting with or without all her ... adornments.” 

That doesn’t stop him from being pleased when Jemma returns the next day.

  
  


Without even asking, Jemma steps into their daily routine, inserting herself seamlessly (for the most part) into their shop. She holds watering cans for Mrs. Fitz while digging for embarrassing baby-Fitz stories. She takes notes -- _actually takes notes_ , Fitz can’t even believe it -- while he lists the Latin names and symbolism of every plant in the store. She tries her hand at arranging bouquets and isn’t half bad at it, though Fitz will just grunt and nod and move on. 

Every day she appears with eager questions about new arrivals. Sometimes Fitz will save her blossoms from rare plants which pass through when she’s not there. She’s noticing new plants everywhere she goes, and she’ll bring newspaper clippings or blurry photos on her phone and demand identification. Twice she stumps the Fitzes, and she and the younger Fitz spend hours online researching the discoveries and the seemingly endless path of information down which it takes them. Mrs. Fitz doesn’t interrupt them, because they seem quite comfortable with their heads close together, arguing over pronunciation. 

Once Fitz starts talking, it seems he can’t stop. He’s not sure that’s ever happened before, even with his mum. But not only does Jemma listen intently, she pushes back when she thinks he’s bluffing or being a poor teacher. She doesn’t seem to notice his stammering, his glowers, all the unintentional trifles which normally send friends packing. It’s like she can understand the language of his being in a way no one else could. 

It’s a stupid idea, he reminds himself as he arranges roses and listens to Jemma tell his mum how they might better organically fertilize their plants. Sooner or later Jemma will realize that too. 

But she returns every morning without fail. 

He pretends not to care, of course. “Shouldn’t you go to work, Jemma?” he gruffs one day after she’s been teasing him about his pretzel intake. “Don’t you have your _own business_ to mind.” 

“That’s very witty,” she observes, then continues as if uninterrupted. “You know how some people have their girlfriend’s name tattooed over their heart? We should do the same for you, but put a wee little pretzel on your stomach. Right... there.” She prods him just above his belly button. “To show how much you love them.” 

He clutches his stomach with both hands. “You do _not_ touch that!” 

“What about it, Fitzy?” she chortles. “Alternatively I could do a nice wedge of cheese, or a little chocolate--” 

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” he grumbles. 

“I know, I know, you hate needles.” 

“It’s not even that,” he admits. “I hate _change_.” 

This doesn’t come as a shock to Jemma -- he’s worn the same ten sweater-vests, cardigans, and button-ups in the weeks she’s known him, showing only a tad more variation in his choice of ties. Still, it gives her pause. 

After a short silence during which Fitz continues to sort through invoices, Jemma says slowly, “But isn’t a moment of change and uncertainty, however painful, worth years of enjoyment and happiness?” 

“Regular philosopher, you are,” he murmurs without looking up.

“I’m serious! I’m not trying to force you into anything, just... That’s how I view it.” 

He nods but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge what she’s saying, so she leans her cheek into her palm and watches him work.  
  
  


Fitz isn’t fond of the idea of mentally undressing someone who hasn’t previously agreed to being mentally undressed, but sometimes, watching Jemma, his mind wanders, wondering what other piercings and tattoos might be hidden under her ripped jeans and tight tops. 

He’s even started daydreaming about drawing things on her skin. She doodles on him, of course -- she seems unable to stop creating, so when she gets an idea and doesn’t have paper, she’ll draw it straight on his arm -- but he can’t shake the idea of Jemma having a little piece of his mind on her skin. 

So when she announces she’s considering getting a new tattoo, he tentatively asks if he could draw it for her. 

“Not with needles!” he’s quick to clarify. “Never that. Just... the draft version. And then you could do the final bit.” 

“You want to design my tattoo?” she asks in great surprise. 

“If...if that’s alright? I’ve done a bit of drawing myself.” 

At lunchtime she drags him over to her shop. (Perhaps there aren’t _that_ many offensive needles around.) In the back room, she spreads a few dozen photographs for his perusal. 

“I was a bit stuck, actually, on what to get. So take your pick.” 

He frowns down at the options for a few moments, a finger pressed to his lips, then says slowly, “I’d need to know the full extent of your existing tattoos, to make sure whatever I design fits in -- like adding a new flower to a bouquet, you know.” 

He doesn’t realize the full implications of what he’s asking until Jemma’s pushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders. 

“What are you doing?” he yelps, clapping a hand over his eyes as the material pools around her waist. 

“Showing you my tattoos,” she replies calmly. “There are more below, but even _I_ don’t go full starkers in my shop.” 

He peeks out between his fingers. “You’re mad.” 

“It’s chilly in here, Fitz, would you just take a look so I can put my clothes back on?”   

Fitz takes a deep breath and lets his hand drop away. Jemma’s wearing a simple red bra, which is of course the first thing he notices -- the second thing being the large freckles speckling the curvature of her cleavage. Then he remembers what he’s really supposed to be looking at and, blushing, starts to walk circles around her. 

“You’ve got a crossword?” He barks with laughter, forgetting himself for a moment and reaching out to trace the boxes. 

“That was an early one,” Jemma chuckles, craning over her shoulder to watch his finger hovering just above her skin. “I do actually have a paper copy of the puzzle that goes with it.” 

“What does the full text of this say?” Fitz asks, prodding her right elbow. 

Jemma holds out her arms, turning them slightly so he can say. “No energy in the universe is created--” 

“And none is destroyed,” Fitz finishes for her. “The first law of thermodynamics.” 

She smiles at him as he continues to study her. For the most part he restrains himself from touching her again, but she has vines which twine up her spine and across her shoulder blades and their movement just begs for him to follow. 

“Do you know how many you have?” he asks, entranced, as he moves back around to the front and takes in the butterflies arching over her hip. 

“Nearly 70.” She giggles then adds, “It’s 69, but it sounds crude when I say that.”

 “The risk of offending me hasn’t stopped you in the past,” he murmurs. Evaluation completed, he asks, “Where did you want to put your new one?” 

Jemma pulls her dress back up, making her few exposed tattoos seem quaint in comparison to the hidden mosaic. “The inside of my wrist.” 

Fitz winces. “Isn’t that about the most sensitive spot you could choose?” 

“Yes, but I’m used to it. And with your design, it’ll be worth it.” 

That idea keeps Fitz up all night, working and reworking his idea. In the end he scraps all the later versions, and it’s the very first one he presents to her. 

“Fitz,” she breathes when he hands her the paper, and her voice catches before she can say anything else. “This is--” She looks up at him, eyes shining. “This is _beautiful._ ” 

“I don’t know if it’s too much detail,” he frets, leaning over to look again at the beaker from which a bouquet of tiger lilies are sprouting. “You’ve got such tiny wrists--” 

“Daisy will be able to do it,” she assures him. “I -- honestly, Fitz, I’m _stunned_.” 

She pulls him into a tight hug. Mrs. Fitz comes into the aisle, sees them, and quickly veers back the way she came. 

When she releases him, Jemma brushes at the tears on her eyelashes and looks back at the paper. “But what are these?” 

He’s forgotten to erase the little TARDIS doodles he made when he got stuck with the actual design. “That’s nothing -- just --” 

“It would make a beautiful tattoo.” 

A few weeks ago he would’ve chided her for pressuring him, but the truth is that he’s been contemplating the same thing. Jemma has him thinking about change and permanence and how they’re not incompatible notions. And though it might be whimsical, what better demonstration of that notion than the TARDIS? Home to a person who is ever-evolving but always the same. Fitz rather likes the symbolism. 

“Yeah, I, uh...” Fitz scratches at his ear. “I was actually considering it.” 

Her jaw drops. “You’re joking. Considering it as in, maybe one night I’ll get drunk and beg Jemma to do it for me, or considering it as in--”

“Considering it as in I’ve thought about it, and I’d like you to do it for me,” he says firmly. He can’t believe what he’s doing, but at the same time it feels _right_. He’s been thinking about it for weeks, and committing now, saying it out loud to someone else -- he thinks he’s ready. 

Until she tells him he should get it on his arse. 

“ _No_.” 

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” she plows on, walking backwards three paces ahead of him on the way to her shop, “but it’s a very fleshy area. It won’t be as sensitive.” 

“ _No_!” 

“Besides, it’s easy to hide. I have several tattoos on my bum and you’d have no idea!” 

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he groans. 

“Fitz.” She stops him with a hand to his chest just outside her shop. “You’re welcome to choose whatever spot you wish, but my _professional_ suggestion is arse.” 

Which is how he finds himself, five minutes later, sweating bullets as he lays face down, half-naked on a table. Jemma’s had the good grace to close all the blinds and lock the door, but he’s far less concerned about passersby seeing anything than about how Jemma’s hands will in mere moments be upon his arse. 

And a needle, too. He can’t decide which is worse. 

“Are you ready?” Jemma calls from where she’s hiding her eyes. “Can I look now?” 

He grumbles some kind of response, so she drops her hands and strides over. 

“Comfy?” 

It’s an innocent question but his man-business is all squished under him and he can’t very well ask her for a pillow. At least he’s chosen a small design. 

She snaps a pair of gloves on and he jumps. 

“You can stop at any time, Fitz,” she promises, laying a hand on his bare upper thigh. “Try not to yell or jump because that could end up being more painful, but you just say the word and it’s done.” 

He’s nearly panting by the time she actually starts. He winces at the first prick and his bum clenches automatically. 

Jemma giggles. 

“Oi!” he snaps over his shoulder. “That’s not funny!” 

“You have to decide if you’re going to be tense or relaxed,” she chides him. “I can’t have you jumping all over the place, unless you want the TARDIS to end up being an abstract deconstruction all over one cheek.” 

She gives his bum a pat and starts again. 

Fitz grits his teeth and focuses on running through times tables. Not that it helps with the pain much, but it distracts a bit from Jemma’s gentle touch. She’s blabbering on about something but for once he’s not really interested. 

Then-- 

“Whoops!” 

The tattoo gun retreats from his skin. 

“What does that mean?” he demands frantically, trying to crane around for a look. “What’s ‘whoops’?” 

“It’s fine,” Jemma assures him breezily. “I’ll just Fitz it with flowers.” 

“I hate you,” he mutters, dropping his chin back onto the table. 

After another forty minutes or so, Jemma turns off the machine, hums slightly to herself, and announces, “There we are, all finished.” 

“It stings like ruddy hell,” he grumbles. 

“Lay there for a moment. I’ll take a photo on my phone so you can see, before I bandage it up.” 

There’s a click, and then Jemma rounds the table to kneel next to him. It’s the first time he’s seen her face through the entire session -- he’d almost wished he had a mirror, just for the comfort of reminding himself she was really there. 

“What do you think?” 

She’s given him a bloody skull with a ribbon that reads “mum”. 

“WHAT THE HELL?!” 

“What’s the problem? You love your mum!” 

“This is NOT what we agreed upon, Jemma!” he shouts frantically. “How’d you like to take off some gent’s pants and see _that_?” 

“As opposed to a TARDIS?” she teases. “Now would you calm down, this isn’t even you. In case you didn’t notice, _this_ person has an olive complexion and dark body hair. No offense, but your bum is quite pasty.” 

She swipes through her photos and finally shows him his TARDIS. 

“It is a bit pasty,” he admits. “But the tattoo looks really, really good, Jemma. Honest.” 

“It’ll look even better when the redness goes away.” She pats his shoulder and stands. “You’ll have to be a bit cautious with your hygiene routine -- you shouldn’t get this wet for a couple weeks, which is obviously complicated when bathing. I have a standard information sheet I can give you to make sure you don’t muck it up...” 

She keeps talking while she carefully covers the tattoo and tapes it down, but Fitz’s mind is racing with something else. Something infinitely more terrifying. 

“Go on and stand, then,” Jemma encourages him, coming around to the front again. “Give it a go.” 

He disembarks from the table gingerly, clutching the towel on which he’d been laying in front of his nudity. 

“Does it hurt?” Jemma asks anxiously. “I’ve forgotten what the first go is like.” 

“It’s not bad, actually.” Fitz takes a few steps toward her. The skin stretches a bit and he grimaces at the pain, but he’s sure he can power through. 

“Well done, Fitz,” Jemma chuckles. “You didn’t even cry. I cried _a lot_ for my first five or so tattoos.” 

He looks up from the floor to her, hoping his eyes are shining with everything he needs to convey to her right now. Her face is light and open and she nudges her lip ring with her tongue and-- Hoarsely, he whispers, “A moment of uncertainty for a lifetime of happiness, yeah?” 

Jemma laughs. “And here I thought you weren’t listening!” 

But he’s not talking about tattoos anymore. He moves toward her determinedly, one hand moving up to cup her face. 

But then his moment of uncertainty quickly devolves into one of despair and embarrassment as Jemma backs away. 

“Fitz, I think you should put on some pants,” she says. 

He realizes he’s still clutching the towel over his crotch and blushes furiously. As if rejection weren’t humiliating enough. “Yeah, sorry. I -- I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable--” He stumbles into his boxers, nearly falling over as he struggles to maintain his dignity without causing more pain to his newly-tattooed skin. 

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable -- I did just spent over an hour touching your arse -- I just thought it might be a bit of an odd way for us to start, with you standing there with your bum free to the wind.” 

“Of course, I -- hang on, _start_?” 

Now Jemma’s the one blushing. “When I said you should put on your pants, that’s all I meant. I didn’t mean you shouldn’t kiss me.” 

“Oh. _Oh_!” 

She laughs -- he’s always making her do that, and it thrills him every time -- and grabs the towel from him, hurling it across the room. “No more uncertainty,” she murmurs, and she presses herself flush against him, cradling his jaw as she kisses him. 

The lip ring doesn’t get in the way nearly as much as Fitz anticipated.

**Author's Note:**

> I have ZERO knowledge about tattoos or flowers so apologies if there are inaccuracies. (If they're easily fixed let me know!)


End file.
